As personal considerations had no weight with this lady he decided to introduce as an argument Prosper’s own interests.
‘I am ready, lady,’ he replied; ‘let us go. Only, while there is still time, let me tell you we shall probably do M. Bertomy more harm than good by taking a step he did not anticipate when he wrote to you.’
‘Some people,’ the young woman answered, ‘have to be rescued against their will. I know Prosper; he is the man to allow himself to be killed without a struggle—’
‘Excuse me, dear madame,’ the detective interrupted, ‘M. Bertomy does not seem to me that kind of man. I believe he has already fixed upon his line of defence, and perhaps by showing yourself at the wrong time you will destroy his most certain way of justifying himself.’
Madame Gypsy delayed her answer to consider Fanferlot’s objections.
‘But I cannot,’ she said, ‘remain inactive without trying to contribute to his safety.’
The detective, feeling that he had gained his point, said:
‘You have a simple way to serve the man you love, and that is to obey him; that is your sacred duty.’
She hesitated, so he picked up Prosper’s letter from the table and continued:
‘M. Bertomy when he is just about to be arrested writes to you and tells you to go away and hide, if you love him, and yet you hesitate. He has reasons for saying so you may be sure.’
M. Fanferlot had himself guessed the reason as soon as he entered the room, but he was keeping that in reserve.
Madame Gypsy was intelligent enough also to divine the reason.
‘Reasons!’ she began; ‘perhaps Prosper wished our liaison to remain a secret! No. I understand now. My presence here would be a serious charge against him. They would ask how he could give me all these things, and where he obtained the money to do so.’
The detective bowed his head in assent.
‘Then I must fly at once! Perhaps the police know already and will be here directly.’
‘Oh,’ Fanferlot said, ‘there is plenty of time.’
She rushed out of the room, calling her servants, and told them to put everything into her boxes as quickly as possible. She herself set the example. Suddenly an idea struck her and she went back to Fanferlot.
‘Everything is ready,’ she said, ‘but where am I to go?’
‘M. Bertomy said furnished rooms at the other end of Paris.’
‘But I do not know any.’
The detective seemed to reflect for a moment, and then, making every effort to conceal his joy at the idea, said:
‘I know a hotel where with an introduction from me you would be treated like a little queen, though it is not so luxurious as here.’
‘Where is it?’
‘On the other side of the water, the Hôtel du Grand-Archange, Quai Saint-Michel, kept by Madame Alexandré.
Nina never took long to make up her mind.
‘Here is the ink,’ she said, ‘write the introduction.’
He had finished in a moment.
‘With these three lines, lady,’ he said, ‘you will be well looked after.’
‘Very well! Now I must let Cavaillon know my address. He should have brought the letter—’
‘He could not come,’ the detective interrupted, ‘but I am going to see him and will let him know your address.
Madame Gypsy was about to send for a carriage, when Fanferlot volunteered to procure one for her. He stopped one as it was passing and instructed the driver to wait for a little dark lady, and if she ordered him to drive to the Quai Saint-Michel he was to crack his whip; but if she gave him any other address he was to get down from his box as if to put one of the traces right.
The detective crossed the road, entered a wine-shop opposite, and a minute afterwards the loud cracking of a whip disturbed the quiet street. Madame Nina had gone to the Grand-Archange.
The detective rubbed his hands with glee.
WHILE Madame Nina Gypsy was on her way to the Grand-Archange, Prosper Bertomy was at the police station.
He was kept waiting there for two hours, during which time he talked to the two policemen in whose charge he was. His expression never varied, his face was like marble. At midday he sent for lunch from a neighbouring restaurant, ate it with a good appetite, and drank almost a whole bottle of wine.
During this time ten other officers at least came to look at him, and they all expressed their views in similar terms. They said:
‘He is a stubborn fellow.’
When he was told that a carriage was waiting, he got up quickly, asked permission to light a cigar, and went downstairs. At the door he bought a buttonhole from a flower girl who wished him good luck.
He thanked her and got into the carriage which drove along the Rue Montmartre.
It was a lovely day, and he remarked to his guardians:
‘It is very strange, but I never felt so much like a walk before.’
One of them replied, ‘I can quite believe that.’
At the clerk’s office, while the entries were being made in the gaol book, Prosper answered the questions with disdainful hauteur. But when he was told to empty his pockets, a gleam of indignation shot from his eyes. He would perhaps have been subjected to further indignities but for the intervention of an oldish man of distinguished appearance, wearing a white necktie and gold-rimmed spectacles, who was warming himself at a stove and appeared quite at home. This was a noted member of the detective force, M. Lecoq, whose eyes had been intently fixed upon the cashier, and who had displayed considerable surprise at his entrance.
After the usual formalities had been completed the cashier was removed to a cell, where as soon as he was alone he burst into tears. His pent-up anger got beyond control; he shouted, cursed, blasphemed and beat the walls with his fists.
Prosper Bertomy was not what he appeared to be, he had ardent passions and a fiery temperament. One day at the age of twenty-four he was seized with ambition and a desire to be like the rich men he saw around him. He studied the careers of these financiers and discovered that at first they were worse off than he was, but that by energy, intelligence and audacity they had succeeded.
He swore to imitate them, and from that time he silenced his instincts and reformed not his character, but its outward appearance.
His efforts had not been wasted. Those who knew him said he was a coming man. But here he was in prison, and even if he were not guilty he would be marked as a suspected man.
The following morning—he had just gone to sleep after a sleepless night—he was awakened for his examination.
As the warder conducted him, he said:
‘You are fortunate; you have to deal with a good brave man.’
He was right. M. Patrigent possessed in a remarkable degree all the qualities necessary for a magistrate. He was keen, firm, unbiased, neither too lenient nor too severe, but a man of inexhaustible patience. This was the man before whom Prosper had to appear.
After walking a considerable distance the warder and his charge entered a long narrow gallery in which were several numbered doors, each of which admitted to the presence of a magistrate.
‘Here,’ the warder said, ‘your fate will be decided.’
The cashier and his guardian sat down upon an oak bench in the